


Unclean

by orphan_account



Series: One-Shots [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, domestic abuse, gencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John abuses Sam because he found out that he's gay. Sam's about to give up when Dean unexpectedly arrives. Warning for mentions of domestic abuse and a suicide attempt!





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't catch it, Sam's a little older than 16, making Dean about 20. 
> 
> Also, trust me when I say I'm all for a loving John, but this popped into my head today and I just had to write it.

Sam is sitting in the corner of their latest and opposite of greatest motel room. Wallpaper peels off the walls to reveal the mold underneath. The bed sheets have some pale floral design with more than a few suspicious looking stains on them. They only add to the depressing nature of Sam's whole situation, making his heart feel like it's sunk to his stomach.

He knows he looks insane huddled up in the corner, eyes red-rimmed, staring off into space, but he couldn't care less. John and Dean had left him about a week ago to go on a hunt. Sam insisted that he was too sick to go, although he felt fine. Physically fine at least. 

Now he's glad their gone. There's nobody to stop him from putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Or maybe he'll put a knife to his wrists, take his good ol' time bleeding out in a warm bath. Too bad there's not more time to think on it. 

The past week consisted of Sam in bed, Sam drinking vodka on an empty stomach, and Sam blasting angry music, not caring if anybody could hear it. He finally broke down a few hours ago and realized that he was going to have to end it. Today. He couldn't keep this thing bottled up inside anymore, but he also couldn't let anybody know. 

More than a couple times he'd considered telling Dean. He'd planned how he would get alone with Dean, tell him its serious. Tell him how John hits him. Tell him how disgusting he is. Tell him how he loves boys the way he's supposed to love girls. That's all he wants to do, but he's so afraid that Dean would be just like John. Maybe Dean would hit him too, tell him what a faggot he is and how he's going to Hell. No, this is just something that he's going to have to bring to Hell with him.

Slowly, Sam picks himself up from his spot in the corner. Some heavy song that he only knows because of Dean is so loud that he can't hear himself open and slam the bedside drawer. Inside was his knife. The one that Dean had given him just a few months ago for his 16th birthday. 

He knows that Dean will miss him, blame himself even, but this is necessary. There's just no life for Sam in this world anymore. 

He doesn't deserve to die by something as simple and painless as a gun. He deserves to suffer. To watch his sins bleed out of him. To know that he'll finally be clean once it's over. 

Not caring if he makes a mess, he finds a comfortable spot on one of the beds. Holding the knife to his left wrist, he closes his eyes. A headache is starting to form, and the loud metal coming from the bulky radio beside him isn't helping. Still, he leaves it on. Soon enough he'll forget all about his headache anyway. 

Suddenly, the music stops. Sam's on defense in seconds and finds himself staring into Dean's wild eyes.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean yells, sounding more scared than angry. 

Dean wrenches the knife out of his little brother's hand. Sam's too shocked to protest. He must not have heard him walk in. Sam curses himself for being so stupid. 

Neither of them say anything at first; it's dead silent without the music. 

"What were you doing with your knife?" Dean asks sternly. His features are etched with concern and worry.

"Nothing," Sam lies uselessly. 

"Nothing? So it just happened to be pressing into your wrist?" he says, this time with more anger.

Sam looks down to see a bead of blood rolling towards his elbow. He hadn't realized that he had actually done any damage yet. 

"No, I just-" he stops himself. 

Is this where he tells Dean? Sure, he can die at any time and escape. But can he bear having to die knowing that his brother, the only one he really trusts, hates him? He doesn't want to ruin all that he has left. It doesn't matter what he wants, because there's no way Dean's letting him leave the room without an explanation.

"You just what?" Dean asks, voice softer. He puts the knife in his waistband and moves a little closer.

_Fuck it._

"I can't stand being here anymore," Sam says quietly. Too afraid to look at Dean, he looks down at the bed sheets. There's bound to be something of disappointment, anger, or maybe even shame on his brother's face after he hears this.

"What?" Dean's face falls. 

"I deserve to die anyway," his voice breaking before he can finish. 

"Don't say that," Dean starts, but his mouth hangs open and he never finishes. 

"I'm so sick of being a punching bag," this time, Sam looks up and glares. "I'm sick of being afraid to come home. And i'm sick of being afraid to live."

"Dad?" Dean says after he puts it together. Again, he moves closer to the edge of the bed, but he stops when Sam flinches away. "What did he do to you?"

Tears prick the corners of Sam's eyes and more than anything he wants to let it all out. Instead, he just grabs the hem of his shirt and starts to pull up. A pained noise escapes his mouth when he pulls it over his head. 

Healing bruises of green and yellow mottle Sam's ribs. There's a faint handprint on his bicep, like he'd been grabbed with such force that it caused a bruise. 

"Sammy, I-" Dean says, clearly holding back tears as well. "I'm so sorry."

Hoping that he's allowed this time, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Sam to move closer. For a moment, it looks as if he considers the warmth of Dean's arms, but he shakes his head. 

"No," he says, backing up. "You don't want to touch me. I'm dirty."

"You're not dirty, Sam; you're my brother," Dean tries to assure him, sounding a little hurt. 

"Your brother's a faggot," Sam spits in a venomous tone. 

"You're gay?" he questions. 

When he realizes that Dean's not even remotely angry with him, he calms down a bit. He'd been ready to run if he had to to, but this is not what he was expecting.

Noticing the change in tension, Dean motions for Sam to come closer to him. He complies and sits on the edge of the bed next to his brother.

"You don't hate me?" Sam whispers to the crusty carpet. 

"No," Dean says as if it were obvious. "There's nothing wrong with being gay."

Sam can feel a sort of relief, but they still have their dad to deal with. Dean would never disobey John. It goes against everything he's been taught. If Sam sticks around, he's still going to have to face the screams and the punches and the kicks when he's down. 

"Dad seems to think otherwise." 

"That's why he hit you?" Dean says disbelievingly. 

Sam nods, "He's right. It's just wrong, Dean. I'm repulsive. I deserve everything he's done to me."

"Stop saying that. You're wrong," Dean can't stand to hear his little brother say these things about him. 

All of his life, he's looked out for him, made sure he had lunch money and shoes on his feet. But he couldn't manage to protect him from his father, or even notice that anything was going on for that matter. Looking back, Dean can see it. He'd always just thought that Sam was just a jumpy kid, flinching at everything. Every now and then, Sam's lip would be split, but he'd always played it off as some freak accident. In the past year or so, Sam barely went outside and had a hugely uncharacteristic loss of interest in school. Dean had figured that he just had a major reality check, but, God, he never imagined this.

"I'm not going to let that bastard anywhere near you," Dean promises. He wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders and pulls him close, so his head rests on top of Sam's. "He won't touch you ever again."

"Are you kicking me out?" Sam asked.

"God no, we're leaving. Tonight," Dean decides without a second thought. 

"But you never disobey Dad," he points out.

Ignoring him, Dean reaches into the drawer that knife was in and pulls out a small first aid kit. Sam sits silently as Dean pulls out antiseptic and a cotton swap to clean his wrist wound. He finishes by sticking on a bright pink band-aid.

"Fabulous," Dean jokes. It's the first he's made all night. "Got 'em at a little mart a few towns back."

Sam can't help but crack a smile at that. 

"Promise me you won't try this again."

When Sam looks up, Dean's face is back to being serious. He loses his smile too. Can he really promise that? No, but he will. For Dean's sake. 

"I promise."

They sit like that for a while longer when Dean declares they need to pack before John calls him to pick him up from the bar that's a few streets over. Soon enough, they're throwing their duffles in the trunk and climbing into the Impala. Dean doesn't start the car right away.

"Sam, I know you don't believe me when I say that you're not disgusting or unclean or whatever, and that you didn't deserve any of this bullshit, " Dean looks over to see Sam picking at his nails guiltily. 

"I just can't," he agrees. It's hard to go against what's been beaten into him for over a year now. Every 'faggot' was met with a kick to his ribs and every 'dirty', 'wrong', and 'disgusting' was accompanied by a punch or a slap. 

Dean nods, "But you will. I'll help you see it, I swear."

With that, the engine starts purring and Sam starts to feel like maybe there is a life for him out there somewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a little love in the comments if you liked it!


End file.
